The Captive Heart (22 page)

The pistol flew from her grasp, clattering onto the floor. Pain in her wrist matched that in her ankle. She drew back her hand, rubbing the offense. The man had struck so fast she never saw it coming.

He eyed her for a moment, then swept past her. Grace tagged after him.

Nothing made sense. Not the way he rummaged through things as if he knew what the containers held. Not the way he snatched up one of Samuel’s shirts.

And especially not the way he bent and spoke with Grace, his words as gibberish as hers. The smile on the child’s face faded. Her eyes widened, and a single, solemn nod swung her hair against her shoulders. He patted her head like a benediction, then without so much as another glance at Eleanor, strode from the cabin and shut the door behind him.

Eleanor dashed to relock the latch then darted to the window, expecting, hoping, desperate to see the man disappear into the forest.

But he sank onto the stairs and set his teeth to Samuel’s shirt, tearing it into strips. Once finished, he stood and hobbled over to the water bucket near the door, dumping most of it in a waterfall over the wound on his leg. Returning to the stairs, he sat and reached into a pouch tied to his breechclout. He pulled out something white and fluffy, then packed it onto the wound. She couldn’t see his face, but from the look of the slashed skin and muscle, it must hurt. Nevertheless, he made no noise, not even a grunt. He wrapped the fabric tight, from ankle to knee. Red seeped through. He applied another layer, until all of Samuel’s shirt bound his leg.

Eleanor’s clenched jaw loosened. Good. Now he could leave.

But he merely shifted, setting his back against one post and stretching out his long legs, blocking the only way out of the cabin.

Eleanor retreated from the window, chest tight. She and Grace were as trapped as a fox in one of Samuel’s snares.

“What do we do now?”

Stane’s question was as rough-edged as the man’s voice, grating against Samuel’s ears. He squatted in the dirt, running his finger along what might be a print of a boot heel—but most likely was just a remnant from a hoof of a buck on the run.

He stood and looked out at the rolling rises and dips of a land as determined to choose its own course as man. After three days of miserable heat and gnats and with no more sure signs of Blacking’s escape route, Samuel knew the truth.

It would take a miracle to flush out the traitor because the man was long gone—and a bigger miracle was in order to make Major Rafferty accept that fact. He lifted his face to the green canopy, browned in ugly patches because of the drought.

You’ve shown me miracles before, Lord. Show me again.

He tugged down his hat brim, then retrieved Wohali’s lead. Grabbing the saddle horn, he hoisted himself up. “We turn back.”

Stane grunted. Not an argument. No debate. Just a grunt. Would that Rafferty might offer the same response.

With a click of his tongue and a yank on the reins, Samuel turned his mount and rode back down the old Ani’yunwiya trail. Stane followed. They didn’t stop until they reached Canebrow Creek, at the rendezvous where a fallen log breached the water.

Jackson, Wills, and the thin man—who for some odd reason went by the name of Brick—draped themselves on the far bank, violating a patch of flattened cane grass. A flask passed from hand to hand. Samuel stifled a growl. He’d have had a better chance tracking the traitor if he’d been sent out hog-tied and blindfolded than to be crippled with this lot.

Wohali splashed across the creek bed. Samuel dismounted, then gave the horse lead enough to drink her fill. He swung off his water skin and quenched his own thirst. Swiping his hand across his mouth, he faced the men. “Any luck?”

Jackson snickered. Brick arched back his head and drained the flask, his enormous Adam’s apple bobbing.

Wills smirked. “Aye. Lucky we brought rum.”

Anger burned in his gut, but it would do no good to let it flare. He dropped onto the ground, laced his fingers behind his head, and lay back, staring up at the sky. Until Rafferty and McDivitt returned, there was no point in arguing with drunkards. He knew that all too well.

His anger fizzled into a smoldering coal of shame. Thank God for forgiveness.

Wohali’s teeth sank into a hunk of grass, the ripping noise more pleasant than the men’s ribald chatter. A year ago, he’d have joined them. But now … ahh, sweet mercy. He unhitched his thoughts and let them roam at will—though he knew exactly to which field they’d run.

To a woman with red hair and blue eyes.

Hopefully Red Bird remained close to the house. He’d found no more ripped carcasses, which could mean either McDivitt’s shot had killed the bear, or the beast had turned back. And if a rogue crossed his wife’s path, well … guilt, familiar and unwelcome, beat against him as harsh as the sun on his face. He was no stranger to leaving women in dangerous situations. Mariah had been at risk whenever he came home. But this time, worry about his new wife’s safety pained him like a tooth gone bad. Always there. Low and throbbing. This time was different.

He closed his eyes, the sun lighting red rings in the darkness. Hours later, he opened them to hooves kicking up water. He stood as Rafferty and McDivitt dismounted.

McDivitt’s breeches sported a new tear on the thigh. Scratches roughed up one of Rafferty’s cheeks. Dirt and sweat etched lines on their faces and necks. They’d had quite the day.

“Find anything?” he asked.

McDivitt rummaged in a pocket, his fingers poking one way and another—and came out empty. He glowered. “Wild turkeys and wilder country. I got a feeling you sent us off on the most treacherous trail.”

Samuel shrugged a shoulder. “You’re the one who wanted to be the big hero.”

“And you, Mr. Heath?” Rafferty pulled off his ridiculous hat and mopped a soiled handkerchief over his brow. “What did you uncover?”

“Nothing. Trail’s cold. I’d say we’re done.”

“Some tracker you are.” McDivitt wheeled about and stomped into the creek, dropping to drink like a dog.

Samuel fought the urge to tear after him and plant a solid kick in his upended rear.

Rafferty balled his cloth inside a fist. “Am I to understand you are refusing to comply with the major-general’s order?”

“No.” Samuel advanced, squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw. “Here’s what you’re to understand, Major. You came to me three days after you lost Blacking. Three days! And then you shackled me with this—” He swung out his arm to the men passed out on the banks. “Maybe—and I mean maybe—I might have found him alone. But there’s no chance, now. Blacking could be anywhere.”

He pivoted, Rafferty spearing his back with a foul curse. Fine. The man could bluster all he liked, but it wouldn’t change the truth. He snagged Wohali’s reins and swung up into the saddle.

Rafferty lifted a face stained the color of spilled wine. “Where are you going?”

“Home. I suggest you follow.”

The major whipped out his fancy pistol, sighting the double-barrel straight at Samuel’s chest. “I could shoot you for treason, here and now.”

Samuel stared him down. “You really think you can get yourselves out of here in one piece without me?”

S
amuel reined in Wohali where the trail split into two. To the right, the long decline to Newcastle. The left, home. Ahh. The thought loosened the muscles in his shoulders. Wohali dipped her head, ears twitching. He leaned forward and patted the mare’s neck. “Almost there, girl.”

Behind him, the steady plod of hooves grew louder. He edged his mount off the trail, allowing the other horses to pass. Jackson, Wills, and Brick mumbled their goodbyes as they filed in front of him. He nodded his. Stane said nothing, as usual, just rode right on by.

Rafferty and McDivitt halted.

Samuel met the major’s cold blue challenge with a piercing glare of his own. “This is where we part ways.”

Rafferty sneered, skin pulling over cheekbones more prominent for having eaten little on the trail. “I cannot say it’s been a pleasure, Mr. Heath.”

Wohali blew out a snorty mist and sidestepped. Samuel didn’t blame her.

“Neither can I, Major.” He clicked his tongue—not that Wohali needed the encouragement. The mare strained onto the path leading home.

McDivitt’s voice followed. “Told ya, he’s as yellow as they come. If we’d have pressed on, I have no doubt we’d have wrangled up that traitor. Heath knew that. He didn’t want the fight, and furthermore …”

The words faded. Samuel let them roll off—but the stripes on his back burned. Everyone had their thorn in the side. His just happened to sport a bushy beard.

The closer he drew to home, the faster Wohali dug in. Apparently the mare had tired of wild grass and wanted a pail of oats and soft bedding as much as he longed to stretch out on furs with a filled belly, even if it was Red Bird’s cooking.

He cleared the woods and slid from the saddle, glad to bear weight on his feet instead of his behind. Grabbing the tether, he guided the horse across the yard.

Inoli emerged from the shadows on the porch like a specter from the grave. Face granite. And leg wrapped with a cloth stained brownish-red.

Samuel strode to meet him. “What has happened?”

Inoli’s dark gaze bore into his. “A lone fox is no match for a blood-drinking bear.”

His brother’s meaning drove the air from his chest, and he sucked in a breath. “Yet you live.”

“So does the bear.”

Samuel swallowed a curse. In former days, he would’ve relished the expletive. Now, it sat like a stone in his gut. “Tell me.”

Sunlight glinted off Inoli’s black hair as he spoke. “I returned from Keowee with a mind to call on you. There is much to say on that matter later.”

“No doubt.” He cracked his neck one way, then the other, working out the tension—for naught. A nerve cinched all the tighter when he finished.

Inoli folded his arms, a favorite storytelling stance of his. This would be quite the tale, then. “Half-mile out, the rise near Hornrock Ridge, I caught the beast unaware.”

“No wonder. You move like a spirit. Looks like you got yourself some new bear grease in those shiny locks of yours, too. Maybe Keowee wasn’t all business, hmm?”

Inoli’s lips twitched.

So, he’d hit home.

“There is more to hunting than animals and intelligence, my brother. Sometimes tracking a skirt is the most difficult hunt of all.”

Samuel grinned. “As always, you speak truth.”

“Unless a rogue bear is involved.” Inoli’s eyes burned like black coals. “My arrow sailed true, catching the animal between throat and chest. Yet it was not enough. The beast charged.”

“How did you escape?”

“This one plays with its prey. The first charge was a bluff, so I ran.”

Inoli’s speed was renowned, but this Samuel could not believe. He shook his head. “Even you can’t outrun a bear, my brother.”

“I didn’t.” Inoli’s gaze dropped to his wrapped calf. “I wedged into the crevice at Hornrock. The bear took many swipes before giving up. One of them caught my leg.”

“Blast!” Samuel rubbed his jaw, fingers rasping against whiskers, mind scraping up the bits of information Inoli served. “How long ago?”

“Two days.”

“Two? Hmm.” The Barton’s Hollow incident was what … three? He scuffed the dirt with his moccasin, replaying the past grueling days, then looked up at Inoli. “Your arrowhead may not be the only wound angering this one.”

Inoli cocked his head. “How so?”

“McDivitt pulled off a shot that might’ve grazed him—or hit square on. Either way, there’s a whole lot of rage bundled up out there in fur and fangs.”

“And claws.” Inoli grimaced.

The cabin door flew open. “Samuel?”

Red Bird stood in the doorway, grasping the frame as if she bore the weight of the entire cabin. Even so, worried or not, she was a sight more pleasant than the men he’d camped with.

Grace tore out, riffling the woman’s skirts as she dashed past. Her little legs flew until she plowed into him. He swung her up high, her loose hair raining down on his face. Why was God so good to him? “How’s my girl?”

“Edoda!” Grace squealed. “Papa’s home!”

“Someone’s learning new words, eh?” He nuzzled his whiskers atop her head until she squirmed, then set her down. The girl raced circles around him and Inoli.

He lifted his face to Red Bird. “Come out, Tatsu’hwa. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Her eyes widened, and she hesitated. Slowly, her fingers moved from clutching the door frame to grabbing handfuls of her skirt as she picked her way across the porch. Descending the stairs, she bypassed Inoli and edged toward Samuel, keeping her gaze fixed on the native as if he might strike like a rattler.

Samuel stifled a grin. For all he knew, this was the first native she’d ever encountered. Truth be told, though, the way she sought his side for protection sent a rush of warmth to his gut. “He won’t bite you, woman. This is my brother, Inoli. I trust him with my life—or yours and Grace’s, for that matter.”

“Ee-no-lee!” Grace marched around the man like a soldier on parade.

“But …” Red Bird’s gaze followed Grace’s dance; then her brow crumpled as she looked up at him. “But he trapped us inside the cabin!”